Interpersonal Bonds
by Radioactive Nerd
Summary: Another collection of vignettes.
1. The Inventor Gene

**Author's Note****: The characters of Doctor Emmett L. Brown, Jules Eratosthenes Brown, and Clara Clayton Brown belong to their respectable creators. All details recognizable are from the minds of the script writer, director, and film crew of the trilogy.**

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Vignette One: The Inventor Gene

The spring air smelled of late afternoon dew and a wafting scent of horses. This was mostly due to the domesticated mammel the scientist sat upon, heading home. It had been a long, long day for Doctor Emmett L. Brown. One of those days when it feels as if time was purposely moving slowly as a punishment. He let go of one of the reins to briefly straighten his hat, recalling the day's incident.

"_I'm telling you Emmett, in a perfect world would something like that come to life." Mr. Stallen had grumbled over Doc's shoulder as the scientist heightened the buggy's wheel. It was not difficult to find the means to create a makeshift jack here. That, however, was not what Mr. Stallen was referring too. What he had been referring to, was bending Doc's ear for over half an hour. _

"_Keep up the faith, Mr. Stallen." Doc had said. The axel of the wheel snapped off in his hands from its deep crack. This one had to be replaced rather than saved. "Where would any of us in this century be if no one had any faith in progress? We will go on to do plenty of new exciting things." _

_Mr. Stallen snorted, whether from the stuffy air or the obscurity of the blacksmith's words. "Like heck, Emmett. You can't honestly believe in that bull. Who will do those new exciting things? My boys? My boys just want to climb trees. Your boy? If I'm not mistaken, your son can barely talk!" _

_Doc straightened at that, eyeing the pudgy man with a dim glare. "My boy," the scientist announced to not only Mr. Stallen, but to whoever in the world was listening, "Just doesn't have anything of interest to say yet." _

He had just mounted off his horse when the front door opened. His family stood there, their figures casting shadows, one small and one feminine, across the grassy yard. One shadow-maker dashed out toward him. His arms stretched out and with shouts of "Pada! Pada!" scrambled toward the scientist. Doc's chest warmed as he dropped to his knees with his arms out wide. Little arms wrapped around his neck as Doc wrapped his around the child.

_An awkwardness quite heavy befell the stable. Mr. Stallen did not meet the dim glare, only glancing at the ceiling, the floorboards dusted with hay, and the open door to a view of town square. A view of men in leather boots and thick hats and California orange dirt. Horses and saloons, women in lacy dresses, and silver pistols. _

_Doc picked up a new axel from one of his worktables to fit on the buggy. He had not felt to act upon the annoyance Mr. Stallen had caused him. The parental protectiveness was still new inside him. It churned up every now and then. Mostly whenever a person, anyone really, spoke ill of his son's lack of communication and general normality. Not that he and Clara had created a freak, but little Jules was proving to be rather different from other children. Something that was both refreshing and concerning. _

"How's my boy?" Doc asked as he lifted his son up. Jules made a series of unreal words, trying to form those he needed. He talked these for a few seconds as Doc carried him inside their cabin home. Clara closed the door behind them, smiling at the father and son.

"_How's the misses?" _

_The question almost startled him into reality. _

"_Clara's fine," Doc had answered as he worked. Truth be told, she was getting quite antsy with her new pregnancy. Being cooped up in the house made her almost twitch but with Jules, it wasn't as bad as the first time. "Doctor Gerald said she should deliver in three more months." _

"_When my wife was pregnant she was an absolute wreck," Mr. Stallen said, scratching at his brown beard. "That was with Caroline. I swear, women get more insane when they're carrying one of their own kind." _

"How are you doing?" He asked and put a free hand on her belly. "Is anything wrong? Any pain or strange motions? Have you had fever or chills?"

The baby within gave a quick kick to his palm as its own response.

"_Brown!" _

_Doc and Mr. Stallen turned to see another man standing there. He was tall, had a gut sticking out of an ill-fitting dirty shirt, and enough hair to be suspected of being the wolfman. A jet black beard curled under his thin yellow mouth and under the old black hat a top his head. Under the brim were eyes that were immediately recognizable for the way they could pierce and dare you. Doc was the only one in town, the very few, that could look at them and not become alienated. _

"_Hello Mr. Tim." Doc greeted, his mouth almost as thin-lined as the new visitor. _

"Oh, just as well as yesterday." She said as she put her own hand over her husband's. Both of their wedding rings touched. "Really Emmett, you worry much too much. I did feel tired, but I took a nap so dinner is going to be late. Why don't you get a little work done in the lab?"

"_I have a bone to pick with you!" Mr. Tim replied as he made his way over to the scientist. He put all his main weight on his left leg. Doc couldn't help staring at the right leg. It was bent at an angle. Always. There was a rumor that Mr. Tim's nephew, the old Mad Dog, had shot him in the right leg after Mr. Tim allegedly married his brother's wife. The rumor was at least twenty years old and Doc had heard it in his very first year back in 1885. Rumors stuck around. The limp too, stuck around. _

"_And what would that be?" Doc asked. Tiredness was evident in his voice. Three buggies, six horses, and Mr. Stallen were quite a day. Enough, but Doc had been taught at a young age that even the slightest tiredness should not get in the way of manners. _

"_You know what." Mr. Tim said. He had a voice as thick as maple syrup but came out crackly like leaves. He limped right up to the buggy Doc was working on. Slamming his fist hard enough on it, he snapped: "I brought an heirloom here yesterday. Big locket, gold of about thirty carrots. Long chain and shaped like a heart." _

"_Yes," Doc said. He remembered that jewelry. It had quite an intricate detailing. It made him wonder if it truly was an heirloom of a family like that. "And I fixed its broken lock and returned it to you. What about it?" _

"_It got stolen." Mr. Tim deadpanned. _

_Doc was confused. "What does this have to do with my services?" _

"_It happened at your services, Brown." Mr. Tim spat as he reached into his pocket. What he withdrew was just a plain chain. An imitation, Doc realized. Not a good one either. The chain was old and silver without any sort of heart-shaped fixture. "I want my money." _

_Doc got up, rubbed his hands on his apron, and faced Mr. Tim. "I'm afraid I'm not the one responsible for the theft here, Robert. Your problem is with the law and not the blacksmith trade." _

_Mr. Tim stepped up to Doc. Their height was equal, neither taller nor smaller than the other. At least, on the outside. _

_Mr. Tim's hot breath carried the words in a sneer. "No my problem is with you. It happened right outside your door, right when I was getting on my horse-" _

"_Surely you can't blame Emmett for a common pick pocket," Mr. Stallen interrupted. Doc nodded as a thank you. Mr. Stallen could run off his mouth without his brain, but somewhere he did have common logic. _

"_Surely I can and do." Mr. Tim grunted. His eyes went back to the scientist's brown ones. "You going to give me my money back Brown? Or am I going to have to-" _

_Mr. Tim was interrupted again but it wasn't by Mr. Stallen. It was by something heavy that flew from his jacket pocket. The sound it made was metallic as it hit the dusty wood of the floor. Doc's gaze was the first upon the object. Mr. Stallen saw it too and his eyes came back up with a glower as bad as the scowl from his mouth. _

_Doc reached down to the object, pulling it up between him and Mr. Tim. Its golden heart dangled right in front of their faces. "The pick pocket wasn't very smart if he left two jewelry items without stealing one." Doc said and shoved the locket into the man's chest. "How dare you try to pull this with me. Get out of here. Now." _

_Mr. Tim scrambled for the locket, grumbling curses, as he pocketed it. Doc could only hear one last grumble as the man left the stable. "Damn old coot." _

Damn old coot. Doc let it replay in his mind. Damn old coot. Damn old coot. Damn old coot. At sixty-nine and countless days lost in space-time, yes he classified as old. Physically and only physically. Damn old coot. Mad scientist. Old Man Brown. Residential weirdo. It came back and stung. Stung harder than he wanted to admit. It shouldn't sting now of all times, when in time those wouldn't be said for another decades worth. And those who said it, were few and usually the same person. Doc pushed the words down, deciding to ignore them again. He took a breath.

There was something calming and exciting about his workspace. Calming in that the worrisome world of possible paradoxes and inconvenient times was outside for now. Exciting in a way that his self-created equiptment offered a hideaway of invention and science. The year 1888 was starting to get to him. He knew what was up next for the world but could not move forward with it. He could not mess with time, could not interfere with the natural flow of things. Only the lab was a true free space.

Doc's thoughts raged as he thought at his main desk. Papers littered its surface. Most with scrawlings of new inventions for the house and for another time machine. Just scrawlings and not anything serious. The scientist felt the need to document the brain vomit, at least until the real vision took over. Now, his mind focused on him and his boy.

He had talked by Jules' age now. Jules was reserved except for when excited (that was more Clara). Himself, when young, had a perpetual mischief that resulted in him getting chased after by a nanny. Jules kept to himself and rarely caused any sort of trouble. The child also had Clara's eyes, Clara's hair, Clara's face and nose, and Clara's 100 watt smile. The only resemblance on the outside between him and his offspring was possibly the ears.

Did they have to be the same? Or did they have to be different?

A tug on his pant leg jarred the questions off. Doc looked down to see Jules, that 100 watt smile still on his face. Doc smiled down at him, too. Jules continued smiling as he held up a thing for his father. In his little hands was a rectangular block of wood. Nothing unusual until the scientist noticed a hole drilled through it. Ah, yes he remembered drilling through several when creating that new cupboard for the kitchen. He had tossed the crooked, botched ones on the floor, meaning to pick them up later. But the one his son was holding up didn't only have a empty hole through it. The hole was filled with a flat topped nail, an inch tall and two centimeters wide. It was put into the hole, screwed right in tightly. Could his boy have…

"Let me see that," Doc said as he took the block of wood out of Jules' hands. He turned it over and over, eyeing it closely. It was screwed in nice and tight. A How popped into his brain but the sight of a stray screwdriver (real from the once trunk of the DeLorean) laying on the ground answered it. The scientist kept examining it with his eyes and hands, excitement growing but sinking when doubtful How's and What's popped up. When he turned over the block for the fiftienth time, Jules looked up at him with his big brown eyes.

"Steel and wood," Jules announced. Doc was surprised by the sudden explanation from his young son. Steel and wood? Steel and wood! The steel of the nail goes through the oak of the wood, piercing it! Doc felt like calling to Clara or calling to Mr. Stallen, or calling to anyone that had said "Emmett's boy is just so dull."

"Did you do this by yourself?" Doc asked. Jules was sucking on his thumb and nodded his head. He reached his free hand toward the block, motioning that he wanted it down. Doc gave it to him and watched. Jules toddled over to the screwdriver and held it in his free hand. He, with only a mili-second of fumbling, stuck the screwdriver's tip in the slit of the nail and turned it. To the left, the nail began to loosen. Doc's eyes grew wider and wider as he watched his little boy get the nail out of the wood.

"Here," Jules said as he held the nail up. Doc got up and took it from him. His eyes were still wide and now his heart was beating quick in his chest. All his nerves and all his fatherly glands were thumping and vibrating. Amazement was a total vague term. Jules still held the block of wood in his hand as his father picked him up.

His son…

He had to test it. Doc led Jules over to his other worktable. The one that had all the house inventions on it. Of which resided a toaster he was working on. Just something to make the family breakfast a little easier. Especially with another mouth to feed in three months. Jules pointed to the toaster, making noises of the question "What's that?" and Doc cleared a space for it right in the center of the worktable.

"It's for breakfast time," Doc answered. Jules reached out toward it, as if wanting to feel it all over. Doc recognized the look in the child's eyes. That look of zoning out, of trying to disassemble the object with the mind. He knew that look because he had seen it reflected in a mirror all the time. Now it made Jules' eyes look more like his, or at least have a hint of him.

"Need help?" Jules pronounced slowly.

"Need help." Doc said and picked up the screwdriver and another nail. He held up the nails in front of Jules. "Which one, son?"

Jules pointed to the shorter nail. His father's excitement grew.

"Correct," Doc said and mounted the nail into one of the components of the toaster. He handed the screwdriver to his son but Jules started shaking his head. His pointer finger guided Doc's view to a box of bolts on the table. Yes! Doc got out a bolt and attached it over the head of the nail. Then his son accepted the screwdriver. "Okay, steady now, steady."

Jules' brow furrowed as his focus intensified. It seemed a pretty strong focus for a two-year-old brain. Doc's big hands, looking bigger over his son's, hovered over Jules' so there would be no severe accidents. Anything could happen with a two-year-old around. But Jules had no problems except for the short fumbling at the beginning. He turned the screwdriver in the slit of the nail head. The screw inside the toaster's heat component tightened along with the bolt that held it in. All the while Doc was praising, saying to Jules:

"Good, keep the tool steady… yes, that's right. That's my boy!"

Truth be told, if he hadn't been witnessing it, Doc wouldn't have believed it. That made him feel a bit guilty. What if Clara had been sweeping the lab (not that she ever did) and Jules had did this with a "Steel through wood, Mama!"? After a day like this one, would he have come home to hear that story and believed it? The mental answer, he shoved back down into his head. Jules had used a screwdriver and that was that. His son knew what his tools were, knew what he needed him to do, and just maybe what the toaster was. That _was_ that. No, that was him.

Doc's chest grew warm again. He kissed Jules' forehead and went over to the chair by his desk. "Eratosthenes of Cyrene could not measure how proud I am of you, Jules. Mother is going to be so proud, too."

Jules laughed happily as his father bounced him on his knee. "Steel through wood, Papa!" The boy exclaimed again. Doc smiled.

Indeed, steel and wood. Father and son. So they could be the same after all, or at least somewhat. The hair could be Clara's and so could the eyes, nose, face, and smile. That didn't mean that the boy couldn't carry that spark of curiosity or the knowledge of tool usage in the mind's memory also. The scientist didn't even know where his intensely pondering mind or mechanical inclination came from. Not from his father, nor his mother. It _had_ passed to him was what mattered and now that it passed to Jules was even better. The pride in his heart made him feel as if he might explode. Especially when Clara appeared in the lab, big belly first, to announce that dinner was ready.

"Clara, darling, you'll never guess what Jules just did!"


	2. Saturday Lone Pine

**Author's Note****: The characters of George McFly and Marty McFly respectively belong to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. Copyright Universal. **

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Vignette Two: Saturday

(Lone Pine)

The rain hit the roof, performing its talented traveling into the house for the thousandth time. It hit the roof tile, sunk through the cracks, dripped into the attic, seeped through the attic floor, and in turn came out of the attic's floor to drip from the living room's ceiling. Drip, drip onto the F key of George McFly's typewriter. Tiny droplets diversed from it, hitting the other keys and George's tapping fingers.

"Dad I'm so _bored_."

"What?" George said, looking up at the wet patch on the ceiling. Another drop leaked and again hit the F key. The dark stain was the size of a football and was dangerously close to the couch. Maybe he could use the royalty check to fix the leak. Before he had to sell ten stories to fix the couch.

"I said I'm bored." Marty said and flopped down on the couch. He brushed potatoe chip crumbs off his green t shirt. George stayed at the armchair, his fingers continuing to type. Tappity, tap, tappity, tap, tap, tappity.

"I said I'm bored."

Tap, tappity, tappity, tap, tap.

"Really bored."

Tap, tappity, tappity, tap, tappity, tap.

"Really, really bored."

Tappity, tappity, tap, tappity.

"Dad!"

George jumped a little in his seat. The heavy typewriter slid on the TV tray and scrapped his knee. "Marty if you're so bored then why don't you find Dave?"

"He's doing algebra with his tutor," Marty said, debating whether or not he should turn on the TV. "Dad, it's raining hard out and there's nothing to do in here. Don't say homework 'cause I was so bored this morning that I did it all!"

George surpressed a laugh, but barely. "All right. Do you want to help me with something?"

"What are you working on?" Marty asked and picked himself up off the couch. He helped George get the typewriter back on the TV tray. Marty leaned on his elbow against the arm chair to get a better view of his father's current work. The boy read the title: "Century Chasers: Case of the Queen's Great Wig?"

"It's a funny story for a junior science fiction magazine," George explained. "A nice break from serious science fiction for serious magazines."

He laughed at his own joke.

"I'll bet," Marty said. A thought occurred to him. "Are you sure you want my help? I get C's in 're going to waste a lot of paper."

"I waste a lot of paper anyway," George said as he took out the sheet he was working on and put in a fresh one. "Besides I need a break from this. Go."

Marty glared at him. "I thought you wanted my help."

"I meant start a story," George corrected. He posed his fingers ready over the keys. "Give me the first sentence."

"About what?" Marty asked.

"About anything," George said. "You're eight years old, use your imagination."

Marty crossed his arms and chewed his lower lip. A few seconds past with George marveling his youngest child. Dave was way too old for "babyish day dreaming" now. Although, photographs of young Dave playing Indians (in a homemade teepee) were plentiful. The family favorite being the one with him, shirt off and a constuction paper headband on, pretending to stab a stick into fish that were really leaves. Linda too claimed that she was ten now and distinguished ten-year-olds didn't play pretend. Last week, however, Lorraine caught her with a backpack full of Barbies going over to Sarah's house. Now Marty, the youngest, the last baby, just turned eight. Did the want for adult-ness kick in at eight?

Marty himself answered George's question.

"Derrik couldn't find his dinosaur anywhere." Marty said to the rainy boredom in the air of the Saturday. "He looked in the cave but realized the cave was too small. So, he looked in all the other caves. His neighbors got mad and kicked him out of every single cave. Derrik rubbed his head after being thrown out again. Where the heck was his dinosaur…"

George typed all this up as Marty dictated. He threw in the Century Chasers while Marty came up with the pirates kidnapping the dinosaur and an amazing battle breaking out. Maybe, just maybe, Marty wasn't growing up so fast.


	3. Tough Love

**Disclaimer****: Toby and Milton were combined into this vignette. Why? I haven't the faintest idea. Character copyrights go to Universal Studios. **

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Vignette Three: Tough Love

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Milton looked at Toby. Toby looked at Milton. Then both looked at the picnic table. Mrs. Baines had set it up nice and American for Fourth of July. A red and white checkered tablecloth covered the splintering wood. Decked upon it was soda pop, theme napkins, paper plates, and hot dogs straight off the American grill. All the condiments to squirt on them were there too. Yup, all American everything. True to the birth of the nation. _The Rocket's Red Glare, Guns Bursting In Air, Gave Truth To The Night, That Our Flag was still There! _

Too bad the picnic wasn't.

Everything was singed beyond belief. Far, far beyond belief. The tablecloth was tattered from flames. Paper plates looked like tiny black rocks. The mustard and ketchup bottles held disgusting aftermath. Ellen and Sally, while screaming, had knocked most of the food off. Ants covered the corn cobs. Hot dogs were trampled into mush, which the neighbor's dog was enjoying. It barked with approval.

"Well, it seemed like a nifty idea…" Toby muttered.

"If you're going to fail at defending youself, speak up!" Sam Baines said. Toby automatically straightened his spine. Milton did too. "Speak!"

"We got the idea from Ray." Toby said.

"Ray?" Sam demanded. "That punk kid down the street with the sideburns?"

"Ray Bradbury, Dad." Milton said. He pulled a rolled magazine out of his back pocket. "See? He wrote a story about a real nifty rocket…"

Sam took the magazine away. Snatching it as if he needed something to shake at the boys.

"The only rockets that should fly in America," Mrs. Baines chimed in. The front of her apron looked charred. "Are the ones from NASA. Why do you two always have to ingage in shenanigans? Today is America's birthday. Do you think your father wants to scold you on America's birthday?"

"Yes." Toby said. Milton elbowed him.

Sam was stock-still for a moment. Neither boy could read his face. Dictarian Rock? Yell Machine Mode? Meltdown Point? They couldn't tell. With one gesture he pushed the magazine into Milton's arms and pointed to the house.

"Go to your room." Sam said. His voice was strangely calmer now. "Don't come down until I say so."

Their room was on the second floor, across from where Lorraine used to sleep. Toby had shared it with Milton for the whole twelve years of his life. Never had they been so quiet in it. No toys were being played with. No comics or magazines were being read. Milton sat on his bed and Toby sat on his. It was a big surprise when Toby filled the silence with words.

"We're not gonna see the fireworks."

"Yeah," Milton said and layed on his back. Their ceiling had been plastered with glow in the dark stars. Milton counted them. Twenty-six.

"Man, why can't Dad be like Beaver's Dad?" Toby wonder out loud. "That guy never yelled!"

"He wasn't real Toby," Milton said. "Neither was the Beaver."

"Still." Toby said. "Why is he… not him."

Crackling fireworks provided a soundtrack for their thinking.


	4. Empire Strikes Back Twin Pines

**Disclaimer****: The ****Back to the Future Trilogy ****and all related characters and themes belong to Universal. Star Wars and all related characters, titles, and themes belong to George Lucas. **

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Vignette Four: Empire Strikes Back

(Twin Pines)

Dorks. A word to describe someone when you're too lazy to get to know them. Dorks. Geeks. Nerds. Lone rangers. The kind of people who would walk around not giving a hoot about their label. Or they would walk around in complete obliviousness of their label. Whatever the case for those cases, not one of those labels described these two. One of the fathers and sons of Hill Valley, sneaking into the next showing at the local theater.

"Pops, I'm telling' you that there's no way they could squeeze another sequel outta this."

"I don't know about this son…"

"C'mon how many ideas can a writer have?"

"Well, a lot…"

Dave McFly stopped shuffling down the alley. "Jeez, then we can do this with my kids when the 42nd Star Wars comes out."

The alley was hot and sticky. Fumes were practically visible from the garbage cans. The bricks seemed to be sweating along with the two. All the while, Dave was counting his steps toward the secret door. The not-so-secret door that he had found out about from his brother. The lock was busted and you could just pop it open and slip through. The alley was such an obstacle of trash and stink, that the employees of the Essex Theater probably thought it wouldn't be worth it.

Ten seconds later and Dave's father was at it again.

"I don't know about this son…"

"Dad," Dave said as he tapped around for the door. "You wanted to see Star Wars Episode V and, damn it, you're going to see Star Wars Episode V!"

George picked at the broken zipper of his jacket. His eyes wouldn't meet his first born. "I still think we should of paid the…"

The man's words trailed off as a barrage of cinema explosions that came out of the door. Jedis scrambled across the screen. Galactic guns burst left and right. Robots were blown up, their parts flying off. All the characters from the first one were still there. George counted them. It may not have been crystal clear on their this far away, but it made the trash enzymes on his pants slightly worth it.

"What about Darth Vader, do ya think he's the same guy?" Dave asked as they shifted along the rows of seats.

"We wouldn't know." George answered. Darth Vadar never removed his mask. True, they'd never know. "I think I stepped in gum."

"Shhh!" Dave whispered. "Just act casual."

George had never acted "casual" in his entire life. He did his best, which resulted in his upper body pumping up and down and his legs stepping out awkwardly. All Dave could do was shake his head and pray the viewers thought his Pop was a hipster. Fortunately, the viewers were too enamored with the movie to bother glancing.

Even behind a fat guy and a beehive-sporting woman, they could see the action.

"Man, can you believe those graphics?" Dave muttered.

"Huh?" George said. "Oh, yeah, the graphics. Far out."

"Totally far out," Dave agreed.

"Shhh!" An old man hissed behind them.

0 0 0

Kids were screaming with after-movie euphoria as they ran into the lobby. Their parents weren't far behind, sharing their educated thoughts. Teenagers came out in one big group. One big loud group ready to find something else to do. Even some old people hobbled out, rubbing their ears and their eyes. George and Dave McFly were the last ones to exit the theater.

"Wowie," Dave said as they went out the door. "Only thing that was wrong with that one was the ending."

"I guess," George said, but he stopped dead. Dave accidentally walked ahead of him and had to double-back.

"What's wrong, Pop?" Dave asked. A booming voice at the start of the sidewalk answered the question.

"Hey McFly!"

Dave shook his head at the man yelling at his father. The cheesy smile and the garish jewelry were the signiture alarm. The polyester suit lumbered toward them. Like an excited bull, Dave thought. He looked at his father only to see the sick and pained expression on his face. Oh jeez…

"What you doing at the picture show?" Biff asked in a mocking tone, which turned to serious. That is, if you could be serious while wearing maroon plaid pants and a pea green sports jacket. "Shouldn't you be at home, getting my proposal ready for the big boss. The meeting's on Monday, ya know."

"It's not just any movie, Biff." Dave said, trying to sound defiant. "It's Star Wars Episode V."

Biff feigned a giant gasp. He acted like he had just embarrassed a grand king. "Well, excuse me!"

"You're excused," George said. His eyes went wide and he almost slapped a hand over his mouth. Biff glared at him and George shrank at least two inches. Dave watched on, trying to think of something to divert disaster.

"What'd you say?" Biff demanded. He waltzed up to George and Dave noticed the man's hands. They were twitching, like they were ready to snatch something. If this were a Gangsta epic of the Prohibition decade, there would be a shot of the pea green jacket lifted to reveal a shiny black pistol. Well, Dave didn't see a pistol, but the hairy thick hands could do just as much damage.

Biff was now three feet away from Dave's father. George was taking on the look of a turtle. His face was nearing green and his eyes were scrunched closed, like he wanted to hide inside himself. Would Biff really pummel his co-worker outside the Essex Theater? Dave looked around and realized very few people were walking around the town square. Little to none, actually. Mom wasn't here. There was no chance of a Luke Skywalker zooming in and swinging a light saver at Biff. What was a seventeen-year-old to do?

"Whoa, what's that thing in the sky?" Dave yelled and pointed toward the night stars. Biff actually turned his head and Dave grabbed his father.

"Run!" He hissed.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Their shoes made noises all down Courthouse Square. The thundering footsteps of Biff made their adrenaline shoot to the extreme. Both had been chased dozens of times and, being skinny, always had the advantage. Biff's rampage died down after a couple blocks. Dave came to a stop on Miller Road. George gave him a look that made the teen start running again. Years and years of dealing with this stuff was enough to plot out a route.

"Did he go for the car?" Dave huffed at his father. George was inhaling air so fast it hurt. The counting reached 50.

"No," George answered. "He only goes for the car when on the street. Through yards and alleys, it's an on-foot chase."

They didn't come to a stop until they counted to safe number was 100, even safer if there was an addition of a ten or two. Their heart rate and breathing almost surpassed those numbers.

"How… far are we… from home?" Dave puffed. He had to inhale deeply just to keep himself conscious. Track had never been a strong point. Apparently, that was something he inherited from his father's side. George was doubled over, putting all his weight on his knees.

"A block or two," He said and gulped. "Are you alright, son?"

"A-okay," Dave gulped. "Just a busted lung and a sweaty shirt. Nothing new. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," George said. They looked at each other, both mentally going over what had happened. The same thing that had happened over and over in each lifetime. The same thing that wouldn't change. Dave wanted to ask the question out loud but Dad would probably just pretend he didn't hear it. Still, he thought it.

What made McFlys so fun to chase?


	5. Who Knows

**Author's Note: Biff Tannan, no matter how vile he is, belongs to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. Copyright Universal. Vignette copyright: me. **

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Vignette Five: Who Knows

Biff Tannan's eyes glared at the huge blue banner strung across the gym entryway. His eyes narrowed further (if possible) at the words: _Father-Son Dance, '52 "Quality fun time!" _It was the annual beginning of the school's many tortures for freshmen. At least, for the weak ones.

"_Quality fun time!" _

Biff felt for the flask in his back jeans pocket. He scanned for the nearest chaperone and waited. Even with a bunch of crusty old shits in the vicinity, more adults had been called in. They circled and prowled, waiting for anyone to try anything fun. At least they all had the same prowl. All Biff had to do was wait for one to turn on his or her heels and then, wham! Vodka time. It burned a little as it went down the teen's gullet but was back in his pocket once the chaperone turned on his heels again. Once the water in his eyes cleared, he was back to glaring at everyone and everything.

Stupid school. Stupid dance. Stupid chaperones. He would be raising his complaining if his pals hadn't blown off this stupid, stupid dance to get plastered at the Indian Drive-In. He should be tossing empty beer bottles at the screen now, instead of watching Buck-Toothed Harold and his equally buck-toothed Dad spill punch all over themselves. Or watching Clyde the Four Eyes and his Dad step on each other's feet. Or watching McFly act like he was going to upchuck alongside his Pop. McFly was diving away every time his old man introduced himself to other fathers. His old man looked like a straight-backed normal guy. _Jeez, how did a regular Fred like that produce a turd like George?_ Biff wondered.

It was bull. Fathers and sons, sons and fathers. Just total bull. All of them, Clyde's Pop to McFly's Pop, were here right now, but tomorrow, who knows. Who cares. It was enough to make Biff feel the striking urge to kick someone's butt. He wanted to do it to all of them but his glare remained on McFly. The nerd looked like he was going to keel over as his father tried to lead him onto the dance floor. Biff wanted to smack him, kick him, punch him, right then and there. If there weren't so many adults around, he would pummel George to a pulp. Maybe he could catch him in the Boys room. Biff lifted the flask to his lips but the classic grip of the high school's oldest teacher stopped him.

"I trust this isn't soda pop, Tannan." Mr. Strickland's voice was the same at this event as it was in the classroom. Biff had only been stuck in this school for two months but he knew all there was to know about Strickland. The old man was always an old man. Period. He also always wore that bozo bow tie and, rumor had it, was the reason for the dinosaurs being extinct. Plus, his breath always smelled of mouthwash.

"Nah, sir, it's black tea." Biff joked. A deafening sting to his arm was the only comeback he received. Strickland twisted off the cap of the flask in one quick gesture. Taking a whiff, he immediately smacked the teen again.

"You got some nerve bringing alcohol into my school!" Strickland said, the vein on his forehead becoming increasingly fat. "Where's your father?"

"Who knows," Biff replied.

"Well, wherever he is, if he knew about this and your usual crock of mischief, you can bet your boots he would be ashamed." Stickland said and with that, turned on his heels and left. The flask was still in his hands and he took a swig as he looked for another suspicious student.

Biff stayed where he was, where he had been since this had started. He took yet another look at the banner, the fathers, and the sons. Especially McFly, whom was still looking like he wanted to pull a disappearing act. His Pop was still trying to get him to dance. So far it was becoming the highlight of the night. Biff went to the refreshments table and stuck the ladle into the punch he had spiked. He filled a cup up to the brim.

Stupid dance.


	6. Troublemakers

**Disclaimer****: Emmett L. Brown and Verne Newton Brown do not belong to this writer. Copyright of characters and mentioned characters belong to Universal Studios. Mentioned instances of the actual animated series again belong to Universal Studios. **

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Vignette Six: Troublemakers

"You know very well I don't like grounding you."

"Then why do you gotta do it so much!"

Doctor Emmett Brown sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was pushing eighty and at this moment he felt that number. Not many seventy-nine-year-olds had a twelve-year-old for a son. Normalacy had never been an adjective of his life. He had two sons for seventy-nine years. The eldest one was well on his way in high school. The youngest… well, needed a bit more parental aid. Normalacy didn't seem to be Verne's adjective either. Not many boys filled a whole swim team's sneakers with lime jello. Jello of all things!

Jules never had pulled such a stunt. Verne had stunts, Jules had experiments. There were loud noises and there were big troubles. Both received groundings if boundaries were broken. Doctor Brown recalled several memories of Verne toddling after Jules. His big brother always had his focus of attention, even if Jules didn't want himself to be. Clara would watch them play, hug his arm, and say that life was just perfect.

What had happened to those days? Doc was sure all parents asked that question, but really what had happened? Verne used to be Jules' second shadow. His eldest was in high school, and already proving himself to his teachers and disproving the stereotype that all teenagers were irresponsible apes. Would it have been so bad for Verne to copy that?

Doc stopped those thoughts right then and there. He was being hard-headed and he knew it. It was not fair to compare his sons like they were food items in the cupboard. They were individual human beings. Ones who were nearing the rocky years of male adolescence. The years where baseball and bike riding were replaced with girls and self-image issues. Last night, he had happened upon Jules examining his face in the bathroom mirror. Indeed a rocky life period was coming up sooner than he would have liked.

He glanced back at Verne, whom was still waiting for a response. He was still short for his age, still didn't care if his hair was uncombed, and still wore that novelty coon skin cap. The hat that had been nearly everywhere since he was a baby. Doc was tempted to stroke the fake fur, but knew it would result in a harsh respounce from his offspring.

Verne did have positive traits too. It was just hard to see them at a time like this.

"Let us go over this again," Doc said with renewed patience. He sat down behind the study's desk. The wood reflected shadows from the dusk outside. "Where did you get all of that jellotin mixture?"

Verne's answer came with a shrug. "Pretending to be a food drive. If it counts, I did give the money donations to a real charity."

Well, at least this child had spasms of honesty.

"What did you do with the jello afterwards?" Doc asked. He put forth an expression of calmness, as if to tell his boy in facial form: _See, son. I'm trying to understand. I want to undertand. I don't want to punish you all the time. _

Verne didn't seem to get the message and if he did, he probably ignored it. "You know. Didn't the gym teacher screech it out of the phone?"

"I want to hear it from your perspective," Doc said. He noticed Verne lean back in the armchair a bit. A smile creeped onto his face, like he was getting ready to brag.

"It wasn't easy," Verne said. "I had a whole red wagon full of the boxes. It took awhile to just get it up the gym steps and into the joint. Took even longer to get in the locker rooms with the janitor still around. What kind of day and age is it when you can't trust a kid with a red wagon?"

Doc didn't answer that.

"Anyways…" Verne continued, getting even more comfortable on the couch. "I got in. Dad, I've never been in a locker room before. They're mostly for the older guys who stink so much they can't go back to class. There's showers in there like the one in our bathroom and lockers and junk. I'm telling' you, I'm never ever going to take a shower in there with a bunch of other guys and girls. No way!"

Doc didn't interject. Neither did he point out that girls most likely possessed their own locker room.

"No way, no way, no way." Verne said. "I thought that as I found the lockers I was looking for. You know how I found 'em? All the guys on the swim team put these blue dolphin stickers on their lockers. Some stickers were on the locks, too, but those things were no match for the epi-laser 2.0!"

That's where that invention got off to, Doc thought.

"After that I grabbed their sneakers, added water, mixed jello, and…" Verne's voice faltered a bit, like a puppy knowing he's piddled on the rug. "Now I'm dead."

A brief silence was broken by the scientist. "Sneakers?"

"Yeah, sneakers." Verne repeated, surpised. Apparently, this was not what he had expected his father to say. Doc leaned back in his seat and tapped his chin. Verne waited for his death sentence.

"Why."

"What?" Verne asked.

"Not what," Doc said and stared expressionless at his son. "Why. I've known you since you popped into this world, Verne. According to all those times of calls from school and complaints from neighbors, I am positive that you never do the things you chose to do with the intention of hurting people for the fun of it. Now son, why."

"Uh…" Verne stammered. His hand went up to the withered tail of his coon skin cap. He tugged it. "Well, um, I definitely didn't do it to tick off those guys… I… wanted to make someone feel better."

Now this was getting interesting. Doc quirked an eyebrow. "I estimate that now the time comes for the answer of who?"

Verne looked down at his socks. "Jules."

"All right," Doc said. In one nano-second his tone switched from Questioning Scientist to Determined Father. A switch he had gotten used to over the years. "I want to know everything from a complete synopsis. Now."

Verne said nothing, only looked at the door.

"Verne Newton Brown, I said now."

His tone did the trick. Verne spilt out everything and everyone. The whole shebang out in one waterfall of words.

"Jules didn't tell you about this, but he wanted to try a sport. A sport! Even I didn't believe it when he told me. I mean, he can swing a good curveball but man-oh-man does he stink at everything else a-and when he told me I thought it was gonna be some kind of experiment or something. Nope, he wanted to make the swim team. So he tried out and I watched after school. He was great, Dad. Almost as good as he is in class. The gym teacher said he was sure member but the team had to have a conference. Yeah, a conference. I bet they were thinking of a way to make him go away. They're pretty anti-nerd at the high school."

Doc tried to keep up with his son's relentless recap. So far, he had learned what had been going on behind closed doors this week:

1. Jules had tried out for the Hill Valley High School Swim Team.

2. Verne went to the the high school to watch him.

"What happened next?" Doc asked. A gut feeling murged inside him, warning him that the upcoming speech was not going to be nice.

"Those guys came up with a way to scare him off. When me and Jules came out of the gym, they followed us. At first, I thought they were just walking behind us but it kept up for too long. When we were at the quad where everyone else was, they attacked. I got knocked over and Jules yelped, actually it was more of a "Yipe!" I looked up and saw more of Jules than I'd want too. His trunks were around his ankles."

The funny feeling inside Doc got stronger. It wormed his way up to his stomach, creating a threatening sense of control loss. What had happened to his son was making him feel ill. How could a child to that to another child? Especially in those rocky years? What was to gain from it?

The question answered itself: Humiliation.

"And thus you hatched a plan to fill their sneakers with jello." Doc finished.

"They pantsed him! Right in front of all the girls and teachers and everyone! What was I supposed to do? Everyone was laughing at him, Dad. Jules is too perfect to do anything about it. Jeez Louise! You could set all his stuff on fire and he'd just look at you and say "I'm very disappointed in you" and walk away!"

"I know, Verny." Doc said in a sigh. True, his eldest had the ability to hold a mature head high when it came to hooligans. That was both a good thing and a bad thing. He tried to control the sick feeling. "But this isn't about, Jules. You can't lose your head whenever things like this happen. Think conversation, not confrentation."

"Sometimes you need a little confrontation." Verne replied and walked right out of the den. Doc stood up.

"Verne, we're not done here."

"I am."

A door slammed by the time Doc entered the hallway. It was the door to Verne's room and Clara was beside it, holding a laundry basket and already knocking.

"Verne, honey, why did you slam your door?" She asked. Doc was beside by her when the answer came.

"Leave me alone!"

Doc rapped on the door. "Verny, I understand you're plight but-"

"No buts, go away!"

He tried to stop it, but an exhausted sigh escaped him. A female hand touched his shoulder, rubbing it in a sympathetic way. He reached up and patted his wife's hand. "I'll take care of this. Don't you worry."

Clara merely nodded and went down the stairs with the laundry basket. Doc watched her before knocking on the door.

"They really pulled his trunks down?" Doc said into the wood.

"All the way," came an answer. The scientist turned around to see his other son. Jules stood in the hallway, a book from the den in hand. Doc couldn't see the title, but he could see it was rather heavy reading. The type of reading that could take up a whole weekend.

"Verne told me." The scientist said. Jules didn't nodd or say anything. He didn't blink. A millenium seemed to pass before Jules turned on his heels and headed for his room.

Doc tried the door again. "Verne?"

A brief pause and then: "What?"

"Do you want an answer to your previous question?"

A thump of stomping socks came toward the door. Doc stepped back as the knob turned. The wood creaked open from the squeaky hinges. One blue-colored eye appeared along with a strand of blond hair. "My question?"

"Yes, your question." Doc said, kneeling to meet the eye level. "But if you want the answer, you're going to have to allow me entrance."

The door creaked some more, opening just enough for him to squeeze inside. He nearly tripped to his death over some Hot Wheels track. The discarded materials and debris of Verne's room proved more death traps. However, he was able to make his way safely to the bed. Verne had his arms crossed, and eyed him with a frown the whole way. When he sat, Verne still stood.

"What's the answer?" Verne demanded.

"I don't like to ground you," Doc said. "I never have and I never will. You have to understand that all adults never want to punish their children. When you become a father you will come across your child with her hand down the cookie jar and then what? I'll tell you: you'll have to punish her. There's no way around it. It's what's best for the child, whether they know it or not. Well, now you know."

Verne sat down next to him. "It still sucks."

"Yes, it still sucks." Doc said and received a perplexed look from his son. "But getting angry and doing irresponsible things doesn't help. It just leads to more groundings and creates an unfortunate cycle. I'm not shaming you for making mistakes, but neither am I haroulding you for making them. Verny, you have a great mind but-"

"I said I'm sick of buts." Verne said and went to stand up. Doc put an arm around the boy's shoulder, preventing him from doing so.

"_But_," the scientist continued. "I wish you would let more people see it."

It completely caught the boy off guard. He looked up at his father and his father noticed the confused state. Verne was used to Buts like "… but you act like an infantile primate." or "… but you don't think before you act." Such statements could make the self-esteem receive a beating. Doc winced from the ping in his gut. Yes, he had to make more positive comments to Verne than negative. The boy may be a troublemaker but, hell, so was he!

Flashes came from his memory. Years four through twelve breached his vision. Missing books, broken household items, tumbles in the yard, a broken limb or two, explorations throughout Hill Valley, lectures from his mother, lectures from his father, and the huge exploration of all explorations. Once again, the theory of Verne's genetic traits reminded him of calling the kettle black. Oh yes, there were possibly more than half the personality traits of his that befell into that DNA structure.

There were more than he thought of his own father's traits befelling into his own DNA structure. Could it be? No, he was always available to Verne. Well, not when he was in the middle of an experiment or running around in the Enterprises van. For the big things he was there! That counted in a boy's lifetime, didn't it? His gaze moved to his son.

For a mere second he saw himself. Those blue eyes aside. The messy blond hair, the childish pout, and the rumpled look from playing. It was like him sitting there during this lecture. Another memory threatened to whisk his mind back to childhood. He suppressed it, letting it die out in the back of his skull. Verne sitting there still held reflection. Although, if he was Verne than that made his present self his father.

"Pop, why are you lookin' at me like that?"

"You know something Verne," Doc began and put an arm around his son's shoulder. Verne actually allowed him to do so. The confusion still played on his face. "Whether you like or not, we both are practically one in the same."

"I think you mean Jules." Verne said. He didn't grumble it this time.

"No," Doc said, with more strength. "I mean you." Before he could realize it, he started laughing.

Now Verne was really confused. "What?"

Doc couldn't control his chuckling. "We… we are so much alike…" He tried to catch his breath. "I can't believe I didn't realize it before. You are really my boy!"

He ruffled the fake fur on Verne's cap. No angry reaction happened since Verne was laughing now too.

"A little too much alike…" Doc said between the laughter. He swallowed then hugged his son closer to him. "Yes, a little too much alike."

Verne eased out of his laughing. "But what about Jules?"

"I'm going down to the high school and deal with that swim team. I bet you a visit from Old Man Brown will set them straight."

Troublemakers now, troublemakers forever.


	7. Questions and Answers

**Disclaimer****: The characters of Marty McFly and Marty McFly Jr. and all other mentioned canon characters belong to Universal Studios. Certain quotes that appear also belong to Universal and **_**Back to the Future **_**and **_**Back to the Future Part II **_**writer Bob Gale. I merely own this vignette. **

* * *

Vignette Seven: Questions and Answers

"_Welcome to the Café 80's, where it's always morning in America…" _

"I want to watch Power Rangers and CSI!"

"Those ancient telecasts? No way!"

"Gimmie the remote, Marlene!"

The boy made a mad grab for the remote control, but sent the potatoe chip sized object into the air. Marlene stalked after it, giving her brother the death glare. From this viewpoint it really reminded the father of _his_ sister. They grow up so fast, he thought. He and his siblings hadn't been at each other's throats until their twenties. Times were changing.

"_Jesus, he looks just like me…" _

There was that word again. Time had gone against him and gone with him. It was enemy and friend. Marty looked over at the TV screen, in the corner was a digital clock. Again, time. He read the time of day and the date.

October 21, 2014

Yup, in one whole year it would happen. The trip to the future, or the present. That morning, he had called up the Doc. They spent a whole hour talking about whether or not he should keep watch. The answer had been a fair no. Even Jules agreed and he was already a Doc too.

Times were changing.

"_Ace, watching a little TV for a change…"_

Marty put down his coffee cup and rubbed his forehead. His hair was still there and not going anywhere. It was not a greased-up retro mess. He listened to the memory of Jennifer telling him a complete recap of her view of the future. He almost threw up the first time he heard it. Him and his son like that? It brought up more memories actually.

"_Dad, did it ever occur to you to say no?" _

_His father refused to make any kind of eye contact. "Look son, uh, I know it's hard for you to understand but the fact is, I'm just not a fighter." _

_Marty was exasperated, but took another wack at it. Although, he couldn't do it without groaning. "Try it once, okay? For me, just say no. N. O. No." _

_The front door opened and Marty thought it was perfect timing. _

"_Hey McFly," Their neighbor greeted quickly. His daughter stood next to him, dressed up like she was pitching an ad for Babe Ruth Munchies. "My kid's selling peanut brittle for her team. It's five dollars a box and I put you down for a case. Okay?" _

_Marty rolled his eyes at how the "Okay?" was more like a demand than a question. Jeez, people around here sure knew how to work Dad. Too easily: Just put a little force in your voice and his tail will go between his legs. Last month, Marty caught his father washing the windows of Mrs. Lander's house while she sat in a lawn chair reading Cosmo. Yup, no guidebook had to be written. Now George had the perfect opportunity. Maybe, just maybe he'd grow a pair in the next two seconds. Marty nearly found himself actually praying. _

"_Well, um…" George started. _

_Marty answered the needed answer in his head: Say it. No. Nope. Sorry, no. No way in hell. No. Buzz off. No. Everyone hates peanut brittle. No. NO! _

"… _Okay." _

_Marty shook his head. This is the last time, he thought. I'm never trying that again, he's a lost cause. _

That was before the change. The Doc had described it as: "A new alternate timeline existing as a result of temporal interruption caused by your initial visitation to 1955." To which he, after all these years, replied with: "In English, Doc." The translation to actual words turned out to be something Marty had learned about in seventh grade.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

It made more sense now than it did in seventh grade. He went there, screwed up, fixed it, then went home. Yeah, went home to a totally new family. At first, he had to put on an act whenever Mom asked how Jennifer was or whenever someone came up to him and asked if Dad had written anything about wormholes yet. Marty was the one that felt like he was in a wormhole. It took a month to get used to the "new" McFlys. Doc was the same, Jennifer was the same, and the Pinheads were the same. That was a mercy from space-time.

"Dad?"

Marty stopped rubbing his forehead to see his own son two inches from him. "Jesus!" He launched backward so far that his head smacked against the wall.

"Are you okay?" His son asked.

There was the kid. His kid. Marty Seamus McFly Jr. in flesh and bone. He wasn't a memory anymore, or a prediction. He was full fledged reality.

"_He's a complete wimp…" _

"Dad!" The boy said with more urgency. "I asked if you were okay?"

"Yeah," Marty said, now massaging the back of his head. A bump was throbbing into growth. "I'm fine. I was just thinking."

"'Bout what?" Marty Jr. asked. He plopped down next to him on the couch.

"'Bout time." Marty answered.

"'Bout time for what?"

"No, I was thinking about just time." Marty said. "And space."

Marty Jr. gave his father a weird look. "Doc getting some science into you?"

Marty laughed. "Trust me, I'm a music lover through and through. I was just, well, remembering something that made me think about time and the future…"

"_Hello? Hello? Anybody home?" The old geezer version of Biff Tannan growled as his fisted cane did the knocking for him. "Huh? Think McFly! Think! Your old man, Mr. Loser?_

"_What?" Marty asked. How could Dad turn out a loser again after all he went through? _

"_That's right," Biff sneered as he sat down. "Loser with a capital L." _

"_Look, I-I happen to know George McFly is not a loser-" Marty began, his head throbbing then too. _

"_I'm not talking about George McFly, I'm talking about his kid!" Biff said, somewhat anxious to get to his planned insult. "Your old man, Marty McFly Sr.? The man who took his life and flushed it completely down the toilet." _

_Marty felt his heart sink, his mind go blank, and his whole body turn numb. Him? That was what happened to him in the future? And the way Biff said it was like he was repeating a bad review of a movie he hated. More questions came and the one who could answer them was off doing unknown that raised other questions. It took long to recover from that, but he knew he was on a mission. _

"_I-I did?" He muttered, then caught himself. "I mean- he did?" _

What he didn't know then had been told to him. It wasn't a dream. It was a warning. One that was so damn obvious that it really shook him up when it finally sunk in.

"_Grandma, when it's ready, could you just shove it in my mouth?" _

"_Don't be a smartass!" _

Oh God…

It was a curse! McFly sons and McFly fathers just never seemed to get it right. There were cowards and screw-ups. All awkward. The first time he met his son, all he could think of was one word: George. It was frightening to know that his future (now present) son had been so screwed up that he ended up a reincarnation of George Douglas McFly. At least, in the old timeline. Well, that wasn't going to happen this time. He knew this since he was seventeen and it was re-asserted every October 21st.

"Hey Dad, Huey Lewis is up for hologram feed. You wanna watch it?" Marlene asked from the floor. She was laying on her stomach and was glued to the TV screen and its various screens.

Not with her either.

"Sure." Marty said and slipped an arm around his son. Marty Jr. gave him a weird look, in his mind, he was a little too old to be hugged by his old man. He gave his father a look but then leaned against Marty's shoulder while Huey Lewis and the News sounded through the room.


	8. Saturday Twin Pines

**Disclaimer: As stated, George McFly and Marty McFly do not belong to myself. The following incident in my vignette is based off a quote from Part One. **

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Vignette Eight: Saturday

(Twin Pines)

Drip, drip, drip, drip. Marty counted the drops of water that hit his father's expense reports. He was up to seventy-five now and glared at the wet papers from his standpoint at the dinning room table. It would be a hundred more if Marty had moved on from counting the times George's glasses slipped down his nose. The papers were halfway drenched but his father didn't notice. He just kept scribbling on them, signing, scribbling, putting the page in another pile, scribbling… drip. Seventy-six.

"Dad I'm so _bored_."

George, after the two hours of Marty sitting and watching him, looked up. The black-rimmed glasses slipped down his nose again. "Marty," George mumbled. He always mumbled. The family was used to it. "If you're bored than go find Dave and play outside."

Marty groaned. "Dave's wrecking his brain on math homework and it's raining, Dad."

"Then go watch TV," George said as he pulled out another yellow form. Marty got up from the table and retrieved the remote. The little TV behind his father came to life with the introduction music to the Twilight Zone. Even with the loud eerie voice-over of the host, George continued to scribble on those yellow forms. "Can't you just do that stuff later?"

"Well, son, Biff likes to sleep in on Sunday…"

Marty groaned again, a little louder than was necessary. In the corner of his blue eye, Marty saw his father flinch like someone had pinched him in the chest. A tiny surge of guilt hit the boy but he ignored it. There was no talking except for the lady screaming on the TV. The quiet lasted until George gave it another try: "Why don't you see what Linda is doing?"

"Are you kidding?" Marty said, lifting his head off of his arms. "She's been in the bathroom since lunch."

"Is she okay?" George asked, looking up from the forms.

"Yeah, she's just staring into the mirror and sighing." Marty informed. "Pretty weird. Dad, do all girls get like that? The girls at my school play on the blacktop all the time. When they hit fifth grade are they gonna get boring and weird, too?"

The last part of Marty's words flew past George's ears. His father signed the halfway point of the stack. Just forty more to go and it's almost four o' clock. He was making good time. His gaze went back to his youngest child. Marty was not sitting across from him anymore. Where was he? George's heart rate started going up until he realized Marty was now standing next to him.

"You're just going to do that all day, huh?" Marty asked. His voice was dripping with disappointment and it stung. George closed his eyes to get some patience.

"Marty… I know this is hard to understand when you're eight but-" George tried to find a different version of his Why and Marty could tell. "Uh, adults have to do what their superiors tell them or bad things happen."

Those small blue eyes pierced the back of his neck. George squeezed his eyes shut with an intensity to match the awkwardness. He just wanted to leave, melt, or disappear. Anything so he wouldn't have to face those eyes and that face. As much as he wanted to say something fatherly, all that came out was: "Go watch TV in the living room, please."

The chair slammed as Marty pushed it in. It was almost unbelievable how his father's mind worked. He went into the kitchen and rummaged through the spice rack, taking out pepper, chili powder, and other bottles. Then he went in the fridge and snatched the last Diet Pepsi. It popped extra loud, being the last one. "You wouldn't have to do that stuff if you said no."

His father's only response was the sound of paper being signed. Marty gave it up and focused on pouring substances into his soda. First pepper but nothing cool happened. Next he tried the chili powder. The fizz became very loud but there wasn't any explosion. As the boy reached for the nutmeg, he got his father's attention.

"Son, what are you doing?" George asked, tiredness evident in his voice.

"Experiments." Marty answered as he squeezed peppermint oil into the Pepsi. The fizz grew louder and foamed up and out of the opening. It spilled over the blue of the can and on a trail toward the paperwork. George pulled all the papers onto his lap.

"Son, _please_."

"Fine." Marty said and took the dripping can away. He dumped it down the sink and went with Experiment Number Two. Taking off toward the living room, Marty flicked on that TV. It blarred cartoons as he sat down and fumbled through his pockets. The magnifying glass and mini Kaboom Poppers were still there and he put them on the floor next to him. Looking up, he checked to see what his father was doing. The guy was still overwhelmed with the forms that weren't even his. Coast was clear. Marty got up quietly and went down the hall. Linda was still examining her face as Marty snuck past her. Good thing because he was banned from her room. The pink and blue wallpaper just screamed GIRLY but Marty made it past it and grabbed the hula hoop. When he got back to the living room, he positioned the hula hoop over the rug. It fit around the braided fabric.

"All right you evil insects…" Marty began as he rolled up the braided rug. It bumped hard into the coffee table, knocking all the junk off of it. One of his mother's brown bottles fell right onto the rug, leaking its aweful smell all over. "Yuck. Anyway, you ants have met you match. Prepare to be obliterated."

The wiggling, squirming, red ants could not find a way out of the hula hoop prison. The army was scrambling more and more as Marty dropped three Kaboom Poppers inside the circle. He checked his father again but George was back into his paperwork mode. All that was left to do was light those things and the ant bites would stop. Free of charge, too. Marty remembered Mom rescuing Dad from letting the exterminator trap them in a cost that only Richie Rich could pay. Now they wouldn't have to pay one cent to get the evil ants out. Marty thought of this as he lit a match and held it to one of the poppers.

"Woah!" Marty hissed as the popper became a sparkler, its fire jumping to the other ones. It was like an unstoppable chain! That is, until it ended by the rug. "Oh no, no, no!" Marty cried but the rug was ablaze in less than a minute.

It was so stupid of him to dump the rest of the poppers _on_ the rug. _So, so incredibly stupid! _Marty thought as he stamped on the rug. It was a useless effort when other poppers would be lit and explode, raising the fire. One exploded right by his left pant leg and Marty forgot to keep up the quiet act.

"Dad!"

What happened next, Marty just remembered a lot of screaming. It happened in such a quick sequence that his eight-year-old brain could barely keep track of: He was grabbed by the waist and yanked away from the mini inferno. Linda and Dave came in and started screaming.

"Dad, get the firemen!" That was Linda.

"Holy shit! Marty tried to torch the house!" That was Dave.

Marty realized that he was screaming too. Screaming as he watched Dave yank out the fire extinguisher from under the sink, aim it at the fire, proceed to spray it (and everyone's hair) until the rug was just braided charcoal.

0 0 0

"What were you thinking?"

And now it was his mother that was doing the screaming. All the screaming, Marty noticed. His father was in the kitchen, nursing his battle wounds. The bandage on Marty's leg itched like crazy. It wasn't bad enough to go to the hospital, but it was enough to add to the lecture. That was matched with her tiredness of a whole day at work. Not a good combination to be trapped in. Linda and Dave were no help. Dave was still laughing, failing at hiding it, and Linda was convinced the rug would burst into flames again.

"Mom, I was trying to get rid of the ants." Marty said, meeting his mother in the eyes. "They were biting Dave and Linda and me all the time."

"I don't care about the ants," Lorraine said, her exasperation hitting its key point. "My great aunt's rug is ruined! So is your sister's hula hoop! Not to mention your new sneakers and jeans. We were going to have an exterminator come in and take care of this. Now we'll have to scrape up more money to fix the damage!"

Marty looked down at his feet. The Nikes he wore had black all over their bottoms and the sides. The blue swishes were nearly impossible to see. "I'm sorry, mom. I was just trying to help."

Lorraine seemed to accept this, but held up a hand anyway. "Just… go to your room, Marty, and wait for your father."

The eight-year-old walked quietly down the hallway this time. No frightened thoughts ran through his head. No imagined terrible versions of the father-son talk. Marty nearly laughed out loud once inside his and Dave's room. Oh yeah, what a fate! His father was a dummy when it came to this parental stuff. It was the same old, same old. Every time Marty broke something, or had an accident, or made a mess, it was the same old, same old. Dad would come into his room, sit himself on the bed, then proceed to run a hand through his greasy comb over while stammering how Marty shouldn't upset his mother. In George Douglas McFly's mind, that was father-son confrontation. Marty had a feeling that it wouldn't change even if he blew up the world.

The doorknob turned.

"Son?"

Marty turned to see his father's lone head sticking in between the doorframe and the door. "Hey, dad." Marty said as he tossed a baseball up and down. George looked down at his feet, summoning courage to ask for entry.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your house."

George walked in and, just as Marty expected, sat next to him on the bed. "I, uh, wanted to have a talk with you." George began. His left hand drifted up to his comb over and he stroked it flat. Marty caught glimpse of the large beige bandage on his father's hand. The fire really got him bad.

"I said I was sorry," Marty said. He got up from the bed and wandered across the room. Picking up some action figures from the desk, he pretended to be entranced with them. Maybe dad would go away faster if he acted distracted. "I'll give you guys my money from Aunt Ellen if it helps."

The springs on the bed creaked as his father got up. Within seconds Marty felt his hand on his shoulder. "No, no keep your birthday money. Your mother and I took your allowance. She was just very upset. You know how she gets on Thursdays."

"Yeah I do," Marty said as he pretended to examine a toy fighter jet. Its painted green wing tips were chipping and he picked at it. A moment of silence passed and Marty had his back to his father the whole time. "Dad?"

"Huh?" George was still picking at his bandage.

"Nevermind," Marty stopped the words from coming out. Or, at least, he thought he had a handle on it. The memory of Mom yelling, Dave teasing, Linda screaming, and his allowance being revolked, all while his father just sat there made his cheeks flush. Then out spilled: "This was all your fault!"

There was no return yell. No glare, no nothing. Marty just stood there, cheeks flushed and toy fighter jet clutched in his fist. All George did was sit and stare. It seemed like a day had passed by when his father blinked. One word came out: "Marty…"

"Go away!" Marty yelled. He wasn't sure what was going on as he yanked on his father's arm. It was all an enraged blur as Marty pushed his father out of the room. George made no movements of resistance. He didn't even utter one word in defense, just as Marty had predicted. The only look was that standard blankness as Marty slammed the door in George's face.

Marty threw himself on his bed and punched the pillow off. Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! If his father had put down the boring papers, which weren't even his, then the rug would be fine and his allowance still on. His father knew that he was saving up. One of Dave's friends was in a family band. He had offered to teach Marty but for a fee. In just two more weeks Marty could have had enough for lesson one. Dave's friend would even provide a guitar!

The door knob turned and Marty jerked his head up. It wasn't mom ready for an Act II of her lecture. It wasn't George ready to stick his head in, mutter something, and close the door. Dave walked in, chewing on a chicken leg as he made his way over to his bed. Marty watched his big brother push off the math homework and plop down. Dave went on eating until he bothered to look at Marty.

"We started dinner without you," Dave said but not to be cruel. "Don't get blitzed. It's just crappy chicken from the market."

Marty said nothing. He pulled out a Western Willy comic and flipped through it, only looking at the pictures.

"Hey, what'd you do to Dad?" Dave asked. "He came out of here looking like someone asked him to help change their tires again."

"Nothin' happened." Marty deadpanned. He gave up the comic and tossed it off the bed. "Dave, before I was born, was Dad always… like Dad?"

"Are you kidding?" Dave asked in a half laugh. He sat up on his bed. "When I was eight, I wanted him to come teach with the other guys' dads at cub scouts. He nearly had a heart attack when I asked him and a panic attack at the actual meeting!"

"What happened at the meeting?" Marty couldn't help but ask.

"We were learning how to fire a gun," Dave explained. "Mike's dad was really good at it. He goes hunting every thanksgiving, shoots his own turkey. Anyway, he was showing off to the other dads and asked what kind of shot Dad had-" It was at that part Dave shook his head and held it in his hands.

Marty was intrigued. Dad with a gun? It was like one of those… what did Mrs. Plath call it? An oxymoron. "Come on, Dave. Tell me what happened!"

"Okay, okay." Dave said, taking his head out of his hands. He got more comfortable on the bed, as if preparing to finish an epic tale. "Dad said no and Mike's dad and the other dads started pushing him to do it. So, naturally, Dad took the gun. Mike's dad told him to aim it at the big red mark they had stuck in the ground. Dad did but his glasses slid down his nose. He went to push them up and Bam! The gun went off."

"Did he shoot a guy or something?" Marty yelled excitedly.

"No," Dave said. "If Dad shot a guy he'd be in jail. He shot a tree branch. It came down a few feet from the target board. All the dads and guys burst out laughing. Dad nearly melted into a puddle."

Marty leaned back in his bed. _Wow,_ he thought, _Just wow. _He came to the conclusion in his eight-year-old mind that his father must have been the way he was all his life. If that was true, then he would be the way he was for the rest of his life. Unless Marty could change him. Could he change him? Dave couldn't. Mom couldn't. Linda couldn't. Heck, not even Grandma and Grandpa could. How could he?

"You know something Dave, Dad's always gonna be Dad." Marty said and it was true.


	9. Tough Love II

**Disclaimer****: Sam Baines and Joey Baines belong to Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. Characterization of these both was made as canon as possible. Some liberties were taken for the Sam character from the first draft of Part II. **

* * *

Vignette Nine: Tough Love II

The house lights went on as Joey was escorted up his own porch. Handcuffs itched his wrists like crazy. The trick to scratching them, he still didn't know. There was rumor going around the station that some handcuffs were defective. Do a little wiggle-jiggle and they would snap off. Joey's pair stayed on no matter what.

One of the officers knocked on the door.

"Oh Joe, you've done it this time." The officer said, shaking his hand. "Three whole strikes in one week. Do you want to be eating prison food?"

"Officer Luke, I'm only sorry you didn't let me finish." Joey said. "Here comes Ma."

The high heel footsteps stopped as the door opened.

"Oh dear, again?" Mrs. Baines sighed.

"Yes, Mrs. Baines, again." Officer Chad said. He led Joey inside. Everyone walked into the living room, Mrs. Baines following with her hands on her hips. "Room looks nice. New shade of paint?"

"I did it myself," Joey said as the handcuffs were snapped off.

"So you can use your talents for good," Officer Luke said. As Joey sat himself down, Officer Chad led Mrs. Baines off to talk. About his "felony". Joey groaned while rubbing his wrists.

Felony. What crime was it? A proclamation here, a proclamation there. It wasn't like these guys had anything better to do! Hill Valley never changed. No one ran through with a gang of guns. No one held the mayor for ransom. Nothing bad ever happened here. What harm was it when a seventeen-year-old took a stand? An un-armed stand?

Nothing. That was what was wrong with this town, this state, this country. People like him were trying to do something different. Go against the wave and the officials hated it. Change is their enemy. They had to stop it before it started. Even if it was in a town where nothing ever happened.

Mrs. Baines came back out with Officer Luke. She had her eyes closed and was shaking her head. No words were said as she led the two officers out the door. Not including the thanks and good bye as she closed the door behind them. Then it was just her and Joey. Although, not for long.

"Sam!" Mrs. Baines called. "It happened again!"

Joey picked at the paint on his vest as his father came in. Sam Baines, a representation of what was wrong with this country, stood in front of the couch. Brow low and sleeves uncuffed. They were always uncuffed after work. Rolled as stiff as his views. Yup, his father brought sternness and malice into the room. It was immediate and Joey had to curl his fingers and toes to stand it.

"Stella," Sam said to his wife. The remaining hair was stiff and did not move as he turned to her. "What'd he screw up this time?"

"I'm not sure," Mrs. Baines said, a hand going to her head. Exasperation lined her facial features. Her mouth in an unreadable line and her hair falling into her aging face. "Something about an obscene drawing downtown."

"It was a mural," Joey interrupted. "To say-"

Sam's gaze was almost murderous. Joey's words caught in his throat, unable to come out. A gaze that plagued the entire household. Receive it and it stopped you dead in your tracks. Mrs. Baines caught the look.

"I'll leave you with your father," She said and with that, left the room. Joey didn't watch her go. If he did, he feared that his eyes would beg her to stay. He wasn't in the mood for begging. After all, he had done nothing wrong.

Sam stared at him for the longest time. Longer than the last times. Then, finally, his father slapped the table.

"Damn it Joey!" Sam said. His voice echoed through the living room. He'd make a good peace speaker, if he gave a damn.

Feet came clambering down the stairs.

"Joey got cuffed again?" Sally asked from the railing.

"Way to go Joe! Fight the power!" Milton said, pumping a fist.

"Where did you learn that?" Sam yelled. His gaze turned back to Joey. "See what you're influencing? All that hippie garbage belongs on the TV. Not in my house!"

Sam slammed a fist on the table. Sally shared a look at Milton and they both bolted up the stairs. Joey caught a glimpse of Sally's skirt and the back of Milton's head. Boy, they were getting old. Sally would be moving out soon, she was already sporting a ring on her finger. His father was like a bear after that gold first appeared. Joey didn't dare ask for new sneakers. Milton sat up straight whenever Sam entered the room. Ellen focused on her homework more than any teenage girl should. It was better to just stay out of the house. The same thing happened when Lorraine got engaged to the old high school wimp. It'd probably happen again with Ellen in a few years.

"It's the third time in one month," Sam said. He became a dictarian rock. The second stage of his scolding. Milton and Toby had named their father's stations of scolding. They never wrote it down. It was taught to Joey and then to Ellen. Both of them memorized it.

"I'm sorry," Joey said. A lie but he had to get out of there. Fred was supposed to call with the signal. Tonight had been an interrupted part one. "I'm really, really sorry."

Sam sighed. "Sorry?" He said. "I don't give a rat's ass if you're sorry! I want to know why you're doing all this crap. Why, in God's name, are you painting women parts on brick walls?"

"I don't know," Joey said. Again, a quick lie. He knew why and Susan's explanation came back into his head.

"_The brick wall never changes, guys." Susan had said as she held up an apron. It was speckled with cartoons of strawberries and flowers. "It stands there forever and ever."_

"_What's that have to do with the apron?" Fred had asked. "Are you gonna make us some eggs?" _

_Susan sent a dirt clod flying into Fred as a response. Fred was bent over, clutching his crotch. Joey laughed in hiccups into the fire. Susan raised the apron, as if to get their attention back. _

"_What I mean is women are expected to do only 'female work.'" Susan continued. "Cook everyone's meals, clean house, look beautiful, shop groceries, and birth and raise clans of kids." _

"_My mom likes doing that." Joey said. _

"_Yeah, mine too." Fred said. _

"_It's not bad if they like it," Susan replied. She still held the apron up high. Up over the fire. "The point we need to make is that they don't have a choice. They don't have a choice between being a wife and mother or being something else. Remember all those Home Ec classes in middle school? You guys got to skip out. Me and the other girls had to learn sewing and cooking. The teacher was an asshole too. She kept saying how she had to learn being a homemaker when she was a little girl. It's a never-ending cycle!" _

_The apron sizzled and blackened in the fire. The strawberries turned into crispy splotches. The flowers, too, seemed to wither in the cloth. "It's not fair," Susan said. "We have to fix this." _

_Joey looked at Fred. Fred looked at Joey. _

"_I'm in." Joey said. _

Sam's brow ceased to raise. His temper also ceased to lower. "Your mother raised you and cooks in the kitchen. You think she hates that? You think she would want a change by painting nudity on walls?"

"Dad-"

"There's something wrong with you. You know that? When I picture you in five years, all I see is a straight jacket and metal bars. Is that what you want?"

"Yes." Joey said. "If it means the world is fixed."

"Go to your room," Sam said. "I don't want to look at you anymore."

It would never end. Joey knew it. The Baines kids that were free, going to be free, or stuck knew it. Joey knew he was in the third category. Now all he could do was go upstairs and think about the next step. Susan and Fred were joining him with the next mural. It'd be even bigger and better. The louder it was, the bigger the voice. Joey repeated this in his head as he climbed the stairs.

Sam watched his son go. Then he shook his head. "That kid…"

He sat down in his arm chair and clicked on the TV set. It was a Tuesday and who had their TV turrn was clear. A music channel blarred unnatural sounds of what was supposed to be music. Shaggy haired guitarists boogied across the multi-colored screen. Their words filled the heads of the watchers. All the other future American workers. Soon to be American bums. Sam swore under his breath.

"Damn Beatles." Sam said and switched the channel.


	10. Quality Time

**Disclaimer****: George McFly and Arthur McFly belong to Universal Studios and Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale. I suppose I should also include the partial copyrights of George Gipe. His novelization provided a look at Arthur McFly, although whether he consulted with Zemeckis and Gale on the characterization is not known. Hereby copyrights belong rightfully to Bob Gale, Robert Zemeckis, George Gipe, and Universal Studios. **

* * *

Vignette Ten: Quality Time

There was a round table. Small, and made of either oak or maple. It had been in the McFly family for generations. Where it came from, which store, and from what year, no one knew. It was a table. It was covered with separate placemats instead of a white cloth. Two plates of plates of TV dinners lay on it. Freezer burned turkey with gravy, corn that had a cold middle, and pudding that didn't taste like pudding served as dinner for the two who sat at the table. To say that the table talked more than the two males would be the perfect statement. Yes, the table talked more than the the two males. Its squeaks and creaks of age expressed more than those two. That is, until one of them worked up enough to attempt a conversation.

"How's school?"

The youngest of the two males, George, looked up from his corn. "Huh?"

"How's school?" The older male asked. George felt his cheek flinch then worried it was a tell tale sign of what had happened. Images of a toilet, the laughing faces of Biff and his gang, and the way everyone looked at his wet head and shoulders came unwanted. George wondered this: Could the memory images be seen by a blood relative in some sort of cosmic telepathic happening? New reading material was making him think like this. _Telepathic_ had never been a word he had ever knew existed. Surpisingly, it had nothing to do with television, or television dinners for that matter.

"School's okay." George answered. The silence returned, not in its whole. The table's creaks and squeaks, along with the tapping of forks against plates served as little interuptions. "Where's Mom?"

"Working." His father said. "Secretaries don't make much. Your mother wanted to work, but when women want to work they have to really work. Uh…"

He trailed off after that. George focused on something else. The turkey on the end of his fork tasted watery. He stared at it, focusing. Without Mom, the dinner felt different. Scarier. Yes, scarier. His father and him… it didn't feel right. It made George's stomach harden. It made his mind fill up with one nervous thought after the other. Curling his toes and squirming in his chair wasn't helping much. This instance reminded him of the time at Lou's Dinner. He had been sitting at the counter and eating cereal like he did every morning. The door opened behind him and he flinched. He always flinched in preparation. An elderly man sat beside him, wearing a sport coat and a hat. A second after he ordered coffee and eggs, he began to ingage George in a conversation. The kind of conversation that George couldn't get out of. It had been the most stomach-squeezing and chair-squirming social interaction George experienced.

"Are you thinking about college?"

"College?" George repeated. A seven-letter word. A scary seven-letter word. College. College. College. Was that all everyone in Hill Valley could talk about? "My boy's going off to college!" or "You need to complete those credits before you can enroll in a college!" Terms like credits and dorm and BFA, MFAs, just made no sense. They made George's head whirl. College. College. College.

"Well, you remember what I said last time." His father muttered and rubbed the back of his neck. George blinked, then focused on his corn.

Their chewing added to the noises interrupting the silence. George stared at his tray, at the table, and then at his feet below.

"Your shoes are getting shabby," His father suddenly said. George looked up, to see his father looking under the table. George looked back at his own feet. True, the shoes on his feet were shabby. False, that the shoes on his feet were his. "Didn't we just buy you those?"

"Yes," George answered. He pushed the rubber tips of his shoes together. "I'm sorry."

More silence with more clinks, creaks, squirming, and squeaks. His father looked up for the fourth time.

"How's school?"

"You already asked that."


	11. Discipline

**Disclaimer****: Gerald Stricland is an interesting character. You can't just watch him and label him a dick. Re-watch the film and look more closer. Try to see something else. Copyright of characters belongs to Universal. **

* * *

Vignette Eleven: Discipline

Discipline. It was more than a ten letter word. Ten letters of true force. Another version of it was punishment. Regulation. Self-control. Authority. Correction. Chastisement. Order. It meant many things. It controlled many things. Gerald knew this. He also know it should be written in all upper case words. DISCIPLINE. That's how it felt, so that's how it should be written.

"Stop flinching!"

_Whack! _

In all his eight years, in all the time he spent, and in all the mischievous acts (though there were hardly any), Gerald had DISCIPLINE seared into his skull. One day he just might have it tattooed on the outside. A reminder in case his brain got frazzled by the future.

_Whack! _

He flinched. He always flinched. The only physical movement of himself right there. His mind was somewhere else. Wondering had never been something he really liked. Actually, very few boys liked it. Except that boy. Gerald thought of him, recalling that boy running all over the place like a circus performer. Running, climbing, rolling over things to see what was under them, jumping, talking a mile a minute, never ever sitting down. Years had gone by since then. Now the boy was dragging science books every which way, examining rocks, testing things, doing weird little "experiments". Gerald never knew the boy beyond observation. His father seemed to know him, or his _kind_. "Dreamers are slackers." His father once said. "Being lost makes you unaware of what's going on and what people expect of you. Dreamers do strange things and grow up to become strange people. Stay away from that boy, Gerald."

_Whack! _

Gerald had stayed away from him. That is, until one day when the boy showed up in his backyard. It had been this morning. Early in the morning, too. Gerald had gotten out of bed and snuck out of the house to play on the tire swing. It had been put up on the tree by his uncle. A huge tire on a strong rope, still smelling like it was on a Chevrolet. His father didn't like it. He said Gerald would break his neck. The tire swing had been up since May and no injuries had happened.

Jumping onto it, he swung greatly forward. Warm summertime wind rushed past his body. It was great in the early morning because the hot sun wasn't beating down on you. Here was California and by the middle of the day in July, you had a choice of burning to a crisp or going inside. Most kids preferred going inside for lemonade. Gerald had worn his skin tough from the sun and could stand it. After all, it wasn't like he could stay that long inside his house.

The tire swing started to spin. Gerald stuck out his legs, trying to make it go faster. The early morning backyard blurred. A rushing scene of blue sky, green grass, yellow sun, and white house. Same blur all around until a new color scheme appeared. He tried to guess what it was, not slowing down. It looked like a person…

Gerald stopped the tire swing by digging his heels into the ground. The backyard kept spinning in his head. Once the dizziness settled, the blur of a person became clear.

"Hello."

_Whack! _

Gerald took a step back. He wasn't sure whether to say: "What are you doing here?" or "Go away, you dreamer nut!" or something else. He said something else.

"Hello." He said and took a good long look at the boy. Usually, the kid was moving so fast that Gerald only caught a glimpse of him. Here he was. Standing right there in his backyard, clothes as worn-in as Gerald's skin. A hefty book, creased and dirty from being dragged everywhere, was tucked under his arm. A satchel filled to the brim with odds and ends weighed the boy down. Gerald noticed a pair of pliers sticking out. Pliers?

"Why do you carry that junk around?" It came out before he could stop it. _What am I doing talking to _him_? _Gerald thought.

The boy blinked then opened up the satchel. The noises that were made as he rummaged through it, were noises that Gerald hadn't ever heard in his life. Finally, the boy took out another book. It was smaller than the one he held and was marked **Property of the Hill Valley Public Library**. Gerald watched the boy open it and flip through it, mouthing some of the words.

"It's all my scientific instruments," The boy said. "All scientists have things like this."

"Oh," Gerald said. Questions like _What kind of instruments do you mean?_ or _Is the bag heavy? _and even _Why are you always traipsing around town like a mad person?_ With all those questions, all the whirling in his head, all that came out was: "My father says you're a dreamer."

The boy scratched some dirt off his shoulder. His smile dimmed but he didn't show any signs of bursting into infant tears. "I don't just dream. That's half the fun. I create, record, and explore. Actually, more than that…"

The boy went on and on. Words flew out a mile a minute. It wasn't quite bragging because the boy let slip some of his biggest accidents and failures, laughing at them too. Strange, strange, strange. Gerald just stood there. Stood and listened, even though he really didn't want to. This was like being at a circus sideshow. The oddball show Cousin Amy wanted to see but you were uneasy and just sat there and nibbled on a hot dog.

"Gerald!"

_Whack! _

Next second he was grabbed by the shirt collar and dragged toward the house. The boy stood there, silent, and watching. His eyes were big and wide. That's what Gerald saw as he was brought inside.

_Whack! _

_Whack! _

_Whack! Whack! _

"Go up to your room now."

DISCIPLINE. Gerald thought of it as he left the room and headed towards his own. His back seared with imprints of the belt. He felt the pain all the way up the stairs because he ran. He ran to his room with the view of the backyard. The boy was not there anymore. No sight of him. Gerald leaned against his bed, wincing. He felt his mind start to ache too. An aching to the tune of DISCIPLINE, DISCIPLINE, DISCIPLINE.


	12. Chemistry Set

**Disclaimer****: Liberties with the character of Doc's father were taken. The only canon we all know is that Doc's father had the original name of Von Braun. That is, until the first World War when he changed it to Brown. As we all know from the third movie, Emmett read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne and decided to dedicate his life to science. In 2008, I wrote an episode for the animated series that worked off the draft script idea that Doc became excited by science from sticking his finger in an electric socket. In this story, he is mentioned of reading said Jules Verne book. Although, he had already dedicated his life through the finger-in-socket idea. That is all (this goes for the collection too). **

* * *

Vignette Twelve: Chemistry Set

"Well, go in."

The maid's voice only held slight sympathy as she gave him a pat on the shoulder. Dust particles jumped off his once starched white shirt. They danced in the air, still a tan-orange from the town park. His shoes too, were caked with the stuff. The white rubber lining of the shoe wasn't white but tan. The black canvas held up but only because of its sneaky color. He picked up his foot and scratched his calf. Anna brushed the excess dirt off her apron, then pushed him out of his stalling.

Dens came in all kinds. He could name two out of all those. A writer's den would have a big wooden desk and dozens upon dozens of books. Papers would be scattered everywhere, named working titles. In the middle of said desk would be a typewriter. A second would be an every-man den. The Fatherly Quarters. A radio for Big Man news, books for Damn Straight I Read minds, and maybe a belt or two. These weren't at all like the den his father kept.

"Father?"

In the midst of this oak and maple furnished room, sat the original Doctor Brown. Silver spectacles drooped down his nose as he focused on his book. When reading, he sat funny in his chair. Emmett had noticed this since his little years. Dr. Brown's back would sink in his chair, his spinal cord relaxed and slightly bent. One leg would cross over the other, patent leather shoe in the air. A bowed, dark-haired head focused on whatever tome graced the thick hands. Emmett stared at the hands. The hands that had delivered him eleven years ago. A memory came back.

One of his mother and her friends having a Ladies Club meeting in the living room. This one stuck out particular because his father was actually home all day. He had walked in on them, painting their signs for the the Hill Valley Historical Society's Picnic. Emmett had been waiting near the scene, waiting for his mother to stop talking so he could ask if he could go to the library. His father had said something and his wife made him hold the art tools. One of the women noted that he had "artist's hands."

His father had said, "No, dear lady, I have fat man's hands." To which, Emmett had to stiffle a laugh.

"No, no." She said. "Your hands are that of a starved man. You may deliver babies, fix wounds, and cure the sick, but there's something in you that's vying for a way out. Something you're suppressing, a talent or a wish."

Emmett remembered his father's reaction was a muttered "Excuse me" and an exit.

A talent or a wish. Emmett still wanted to know. Painting? Writing? Sports? Teaching? Juggling? What! What was "vying for a way out"?

"Father?"

Middle-aged eyes removed themselves from the novel. They looked tired. Tired of not Emmett, but of something different. The vying?

"Emmett," Dr. Brown said, putting the novel aside. He sat up in a more adequate, more polite, position. "Come in."

Emmett still stood in the doorway. The atmosphere thickened to the equivalence of jam.

"Emmett, you can come in." Dr. Brown said again. This time, Emmett did. He walked over to the vacant reading chair and sat. Its crushed leather felt warm from the summer sun. Deep too, from all the literature scenes that showcased in Emmett's imagination this summer. A confrontation with a whale, a personality chemical experiment gone awry, a party in the Jazz Age, and the incredible Nautilus expedition. Emmett's mind wavered with thoughts of Nemo.

"It's beautiful outside."

Emmett blinked. Outside the window was a view of sun, blue sky, and bright grass. A perfect California day. One that had been perfect for learning about foliage. Trampling around the park, getting on his knees for close observing, crouching in dry mud for note taking, and the fall down the hill…

"What happened to your clothes?"

"Huh?" Emmett said.

"Your clothes." Dr. Brown said. He pointed at Emmett with a fountain pen. A drop of ink escaped and hit the desktop. "They're filthy. Were you rough-housing with your friends?"

"No," Emmett said. He began to pick at a tear in the leather. "I was by myself in the park. Did you know there are three angiosperms that aren't indigenous to California, in our park?"

Dr. Brown opened his mouth, then closed it. "No I didn't know that. I never was quite the student you are in science."

"But you're a doctor," Emmett said.

"Yes, but a doctor in the traditional medical sense." Dr. Brown said. He pushed his glasses up his nose, just by habit. He had a long nose, a german trait. Emmett had it too. Subconsciously, Emmett reached up and scratched the bridge of his dirty nose. "My doctorates were strictly in medicine. One was in biology, though."

"Can you get doctorates in different sciences?" Emmett asked. "Not just for helping people with diseases or babies?"

"Well, yes." Dr. Brown said, his eyes focused anywhere but on Emmett. "There's biology, earth sciences, chemistry, astronomy, and physics."

Emmett eyes widened. So many sciences… and he was sure that those were just the _titles_ of groups. Maybe he should think this over. How could he learn all those sciences? Biology, earth sciences, chemistry, astronomy, and physics? And their inside studies, all of them? At age eleven, a feat like that would take two lifetimes! Did Nemo have two lifetimes? Did Professor Annorax have two lifetimes?

No and Emmett knew he had just one. One life that was dedicated to science, since April. And since April, all he had learned were constallations and a little botany. If it took a whole month to learn that little, how was he supposed to learn the rest of science? Emmett remembered why he came in here.

"Father?" Emmett succeeded in getting back his father's attention. "May I ask you something?"

"Yes you may," Dr. Brown said. He leaned forward in his chair, as if he was a business man awaiting a proposal. Emmett squinched down tighter in his seat.

"Actually, I'm asking _for_ something." Emmett corrected. He readied himself. "There was an advertisement in one of my _Popular Science_ magazines. It was a fully stocked chemistry set. It was used, but is in good condition. I saved up for half of it, but the limit of availability is almost up. I was wondering if, well, you could help me with the other… um, monetary half?"

"Monetary half?" Dr. Brown repeated. Emmett couldn't tell if he was mocking him or not. "Monetary half…"

Emmett couldn't help but bite his lower lip. His father was a decision-maker in the house and always thought those decisions out. It was brutal when those decisions centered around Emmett. The wait alone, was brutal.

"Let me talk it over with your mother," Dr. Brown finally said. Emmett nodded, thrilled but reserved. "A chemistry set involves responsibility. You're eleven. I need to weigh this out with another responsible adult. Now, go enjoy the rest of the day."

Emmett got up from the leather chair. He ran out of the room, still feeling like his insides would burst from the excitement. Dr. Brown watched him go, enjoying the small smile that was on the boy's face.

He wasn't used to seeing that smile. At least, not a smile caused by him. He would walk in the house to find Emmett reading. Reading like he had never seen any eleven-year-old read before. The boy would be in his room, going over papers in his little desk space. Sarah found that desk space so adorable. The papers scattered everywhere, soil samples, books open or dog-earred beyond belief, and makeshift tools. In a way, it was cute. _"A cute little phase," _she had said. She had predicted it would last until Emmett hit those adolescent years. Then, everything would change. Dr. Brown wasn't so sure.

His son just seemed so enthralled with science. Not that he himself disapproved. An eleven-year-old reading, documenting, and learning all he could about his environment was incredible. Most boys around now would just want to wrestle. They possessed very little curiosity because it had burned out by age six. Emmett's kept burning bright. He could see it in the boy's eyes if he looked close enough.

Dr. Brown glanced at his bookshelf. He had long lost track of how many books were in his possesion. Most were his, but some were Sarah's. Emmett preferred the library and thus had no books of his own. Children books were never the result of the boy's library trips. It was encyclopedias or Verne or tomes as thick as law books. Once Dr. Brown happened upon Emmett absorbed in three books at once. All while other volumes lay stacked around his thin body. The concentration…

Maybe a chemistry set wasn't a bad request. A possibility came forward that his son was only concentrated when it came to reading. Or when it came to alienating himself.

Dr. Brown leaned back in his chair with a sigh. The way he handled this situation, Emmett coming into his den, was pathetic. Pathetic. Why must they be like this? The answer ceased to hit him. It ceased to form a clearness in his head.

How could a father not be able to relate to his son?

An answer never came.


End file.
